


His Bedside Manner Could Use Some Work

by naughtical_nbd



Series: Naughtical Requests [2]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Ace Flavor: Sex Neutral, As in: Jon agrees but Peter definitely does not ask twice, Informed by Asexuality, Leaning towards Favorable, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Multiple Orgasms, Oral Sex, Sickfic, Squirting, Trans Male Character, author is ace & trans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-16
Updated: 2020-01-16
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:33:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22274119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/naughtical_nbd/pseuds/naughtical_nbd
Summary: Anon requested sickfic with Jon/Peter.An ailing Jon receives a visit in the archives.—“Goodness, Archivist,” says the jovial voice from somewhere above him. “What have you gotten yourself into this time?
Relationships: Peter Lukas/Jonathan Sims
Series: Naughtical Requests [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1538620
Comments: 10
Kudos: 177





	His Bedside Manner Could Use Some Work

**Author's Note:**

> Anon requested: Sickfic with Jon/Peter! This one got away from me a bit but I'm pleased with how it came out. 
> 
> Transmasc person havin' sex; language used this time is "clit," "vulva," "cunt," etc. as well as "entrance." 
> 
> Enjoy!

“Goodness, Archivist,” says the jovial voice from somewhere above him. “What have you gotten yourself into this time?”

Jon doesn’t open his eyes right away, partly because he can already tell the light is going to hurt, and partly because he already has a pretty good guess who it is looming over him. Only certain types of devotees ever address him by title, and these days, there are only so many of them who can make their way into the heart of the Archives while sounding this casual. “Not today, Lukas,” he mutters, shrinking into the sparse nest of blankets he’s managed to build himself on his cot. “Not up for it.”

“Oh, I know,” Peter Lukas says mildly. “You’re not up for much of anything just now, are you?”

Personally, Jon had been hoping that a small saving grace of his recent monstrous transition would spare him the indignity of coming down with this year’s flu. In hindsight it stood perfectly to reason that it would serve the Eye far better if he were to sit through the entire miserable experience, but as usual, Jon had failed to anticipate. Which ultimately meant that Lukas was right; he’d barely moved for the past twelve hours, except to drag himself over to a filing cabinet, hoping a statement might take the edge off. It had not improved matters.

Finally, Jon cracks an eyelid, and immediately regrets it. Lukas is, at least, looming over him in a capacity that blocks out the worst of the overhead lights, studying him with a tranquil expression, his bearded face passive and vaguely disinterested. He’s shorter and broader than Jon had expected, wearing a long dark coat that stretches slightly across his shoulders. When Jon finally looks at him, he smiles, managing to make it look distant. “There you are,” he says, far too familiar for Jon’s taste. “I’d say it’s nice to meet you, but, well.”

“I thought you’d be wearing a captain’s hat,” Jon says, unsure if he is voicing this to taunt Lukas or if sitting up has simply made him too dizzy to filter himself. “Maybe smoking a pipe.”

“Hmm.” Lukas hums, clucking his tongue softly. He draws a hand out of his pocket and, before Jon can react, places it firmly on his forehead. His palm is chilly, and somehow damp. The shock of cold skin sends a shiver down Jon’s spine, but he finds himself pressing into the sensation unconsciously, his eyes falling shut again.

“Ah,” says Lukas, as if confirming a long-held suspicion. He smooths Jon’s greasy hair back from his face, an unexpectedly intimate gesture. “Right. How about… Sit tight, Archivist, and I’ll be back in a moment.”

Jon shakes off his touch, squinting at him. “Wait, I don’t-“ A blink to clear his vision, and Lukas is gone, the air in the room suspiciously colder in his wake. “Oh, shit,” Jon hisses, clutching one of the blankets around his shoulders and heaving himself up off of the cot. He sways dangerously on his feet until bracing himself against one of the cabinets. “Basira?” he calls, as loud as his tender throat will allow him, and shuffles toward the door of his office. Opening it, he leans out, aware he must look like somebody’s frazzled babushka with the blanket around his shoulders and not much caring. “Basira? Daisy?” No response.

He moves unsteadily out into the rows, heading towards the breakroom, keeping one hand on the edge of a shelf just in case. “Daisy? Are you-“ A hesitant pause. “Erm- Helen…?”

There is only silence, and he shivers, leaning up against the kitchenette, feeling foolish for even bothering to check. “You’d better not have sent them away,” he adds, addressing the general empty space of the breakroom threateningly, although what he’s able to do about it in this state is questionable at best.

“Oh, certainly not,” says Lukas behind him, making him jump. “On the contrary. I’ve put you in… Shall we say, quarantine? Which was obviously the right decision; as I recall, I did tell you to stay put.”

“Oh, my apologies for not taking your word in good faith,” Jon snaps, attempting to whip around and face him, succeeding in whacking his head against one of the cabinet doors that Lukas has just silently opened. “ _Ow_. Fuck.”

“Careful,” says Lukas blandly, taking the container of honey down from the cabinet and squeezing a liberal amount into the steaming mug on the counter in front of him.

“What’s that,” Jon asks warily, rubbing his crown.

“Tea, Archivist,” says Peter Lukas. “For you. But first-“ he reaches into the pocket of his coat and takes out a small plastic container, pops it open and shakes out three pale orange pills. “Take these.” He offers them in his cupped palm.

“What-“ Jon starts again, and then chokes on too many questions, coughs thickly into the crook of his elbow. For a while he can’t stop, every inhale burning and flaring the rawness in his throat. Afterwards he’s left drained and wheezing, tears tracking their way unwillingly down both cheeks.

He feels a hand on his elbow, light, unintrusive. “Here,” Lukas says, dryly exasperated but not unkind, pressing a hot mug into his hands. Jon takes a gulp without caution and promptly burns his tongue, more tears springing to the corners of his eyes. He’s still lightheaded from his coughing fit, and before he knows it he’s leaning against Peter, and then there’s a hand around his waist, steering him. “Come on, let’s go. You really ought to be in bed.”

Progress is slow back across the archive to Jon’s office-made-bedroom, but eventually he’s slumped back on the edge of his camp bed, and Lukas is handing him the pills again. “It’s a fever reducer,” he says when Jon gives him a glare of suspicion. “Do you really think I’m trying to poison you, Archivist? I _have_ been paying attention, you know. You’ve already climbed out of the grave twice now.”

Jon rolls his eyes and swallows them all in one go, the hot tea irritating his burned mouth. At least his breathing is a bit easier now, although his head is still aching and sluggish as the rest of him. “There we are,” Lukas says when he’s taken the medicine, dimly cheerful. “Now you just need some proper rest, and you ought to see improvement in the morning.”

Jon eyes him over the rim of his mug. “I- What are you _doing_ here?” He croaks, feeling the static curl through his voice even in this weakened state. “Why show up now?”

“Oh, that’s enough, Archivist,” says Lukas, his voice chiding and drily disappointed the way only men over fifty can sound. “No need to exert yourself.”

“I just don’t understand,” Jon says, shivering again as Lukas sits down beside him. The man seems to simply radiate a humid sort of chill. Jon knows he should protest him taking up space so close, faintly aware he must be playing on a moment of weakness, but Jon is so tired; the only thing he can hold onto is the need for answers. “Why bother with-?”

“Because,” says Lukas, musing, “you need someone.”

“I thought that distance was rather your whole, thing,” Jon points out, taking another sip of tea and grimacing; now that it’s finally cool enough to taste, he can tell it’s too sweet.

“It is,” Lukas agrees easily. “But not necessarily distance from _me._ Now, you really should lay down.”

“I’m not going to sleep,” says Jon. He doesn’t fancy the idea of letting his guard down that far with Lukas at his bedside, and anyway, his head is still throbbing.

“Trouble sleeping, eh?” Lukas sounds almost sympathetic, taking the mug of tea from his hands when Jon, forgetting he’s holding it, nearly lets it drop. He sets it on the floor. “I could help with that, you know.”

“Is that so,” Jon replies dully. His head feels like it’s full of a kilo’s worth of nails.

“Easy,” says Lukas with placid confidence, and then his fingers are feather-light against Jon’s cheek, steering him into a kiss he was not expecting in a thousand years. It’s light, and disconcertingly gentle; Peter’s lips are as cold as the rest of him, and his beard tickles oddly at Jon’s face. For a minute, Jon is too surprised to pull away. Then he’s too indecisive. Finally, he jerks backwards, nearly overbalancing. There are about a hundred things he can think to say, over half of them involving some very choice swears, but what ends up coming out first is simply, “I- You’ll catch something from me if you keep that up.”

“Oh, I promise I won’t,” says Peter, and his grin has a harder edge to it this time. “Do you want me to keep it up?”

Jon stares. Peter’s eyes are a foggy blue. He thinks, _this is the man who lead Martin away,_ and _he’s doing some sinister favor for Elias,_ and _propositioning me could be part of it, in some wild capacity._ He thinks, _this is someone who feeds off of misery._ He thinks, _I’ve done exactly that, these days._ He thinks, _maybe I could learn something._

“Fine,” he says, and it’s not a resounding _yes,_ but apparently Lukas is content with that, cupping his jaw and leaning in again with confidence. His next kiss is firmer, still chaste but more insistent, his other hand coming to rest at the small of Jon’s back. Peter has big hands, thick fingers with soft pads, no seaworthy calluses to imply he actually does anything on that boat of his but command. Moving his grip to the base of Jon’s neck, he slides those fingers into Jon’s hair, tugs hard, and when Jon opens his mouth in an involuntary gasp Peter’s tongue ravishes him like a wave on the rocks.

Jon grows breathless fast, especially with Peter kissing him like a possession, his huge hands everywhere at once, lowering the both of them down onto the bed. It’s a relief and a strange loss when he finally trails down Jon’s neck, seeming to lose interest as he reaches the collar of the old t-shirt that used to belong to Daisy. Peter sits up, leaving Jon dazed and reeling until he feels those smooth hands slip under the waistband of his joggers. “I- wait-” He tries to lever himself up on one elbow, but Peter lays a heavy hand on his chest. “Relax, Archivist. This will help.”

Jon sinks back against the pillow, tired and uneasy. Peter slides his joggers down, but not off, leaving them hooked absurdly around his left ankle. He spends a moment simply stroking Jon’s thighs, perhaps admiring the scars, before he tugs at the elastic of Jon’s pants as well. “Careful,” Jon says nonsensically, because he genuinely can’t remember the last time anyone undressed him like this. Peter shakes his head and chuckles. “Not to worry.”

He can’t help the soft hiss that escapes him when Peter pulls the simple grey briefs away, because for some ungodly reason Jon is so wet he’s soaked obscenely through the crotch of them. They come off sticky, trailing a shiny, slick thread that Peter breaks with his finger, grinning. “You should have mentioned the situation was this urgent,” he says, detached as ever. “I could have made you the tea afterwards.”

“Shut up,” Jon says, although instead of irritable he simply sounds weary.

“You’re right,” Peter agrees, one placating hand massaging the sensitive crease of Jon’s thigh. “I could be putting my mouth to better use.” Somehow, in one fluid movement, he changes from sitting on the cot to kneeling on the floor of the office, positioned between Jon’s legs with one of his knees rested on Peter’s shoulder. “Feel free to put your hands in my hair,” he offers. “I quite enjoy that.”

Jon doesn’t know how to respond, and Peter doesn’t wait for him. Spreading Jon’s folds almost delicately with the fingers of one hand, he regards for a moment with a quiet, appreciative sigh that feels private even to the exclusion of Jon himself. Then he leans in without preamble, and Jon stops breathing. Some sort of strangled noise must have escaped him, because Peter chuckles, and he can _feel_ the vibrations from it, the low, smug sound coursing _into_ him and winding him tight as a violin string. It really has been a long, _long_ time since anyone’s done something like this, and as much as Jon doesn’t begrudge the dry spell in the slightest, it doesn’t change the way novelty heightens the feeling. It expels every other thought from his head almost violently, and he finds himself struggling for some kind of mental purchase.

He wriggles, shivering, and Peter pinches his thigh in reproach, making him jump. With both broad hands he grips Jon by the hips and drags him closer, bunching Jon’s shirt underneath him and hiking it up to his stomach in the process. Jon is about to ask what the manhandling was for when he is startled by an entirely unfamiliar sensation that curls all the way up his spine, his body arching into it unconsciously. After a moment he realizes Peter has his tongue _inside_ him, licking shamelessly at his entrance, and the knowledge almost makes his brain short out like a socket. “Wh- you- you can’t _do_ that,” he says in weak disbelief, his voice coming out whiny and cracked.

Peter hums again, this time in tones of amusement. “Of course I can,” he murmurs. “Seems you’ve been missing out, Archivist.”

“No, I-” Jon protests, except Peter takes the opportunity to drag his tongue flat and heavy up over the hood of Jon’s clit, and it just about knocks the wind out of him. “... _Fuck_ ,” he gasps, wobbly and feeble. He can feel something like a knot low inside himself, warm and loosely uncoiling, a warning. Orgasms have always been a bit intimidating for Jon, trepidatious territory, especially around other people; it’s _enjoyable,_ certainly, but the loss of control makes him anxious, withholding.

 _You’re overthinking it again,_ he chides himself faintly, and then Peter’s tongue finds some hidden sweet spot, and he’s not thinking at all. It’s all Jon can do to clamp his jaw shut so he doesn’t cry out, shuddering with the heady, overwhelming waves of pleasure rolling through him. He finds his hands bunched in fistfuls of his nightshirt just for something to ground him while he rides it out, unsure if he wants to push against Peter’s self-satisfied mouth or draw away from him.

For having just made him come, Peter diverts extraordinarily little attention to the event, save for a short grunt of approval. Nor does he slow his movements in the slightest, until the overstimulation has Jon twisting away from him, batting at his forehead. “Ah- ah, too much…”

“Hmm,” says Peter, and when Jon cracks a woozy eyelid at him he looks suspiciously thoughtful. “I don’t believe we’re done yet.” He smiles, and his greying beard is damp, glistening with evidence of Jon’s arousal. “Are we?”

For a lurching, rocky moment Jon thinks Lukas wants to fuck him, _properly_ fuck him, and however vague and fuzzy the boundary he’s drawn around whatever is happening here, that is definitely beyond it. But he doesn’t try to pull out his cock, or really even move at all from his kneeling position, just watches Jon with faraway patience. “See, I think I can do better, is all,” he adds after a minute. “I promised you rest, didn’t I?”

“... You did,” Jon says slowly, after it becomes evident that Peter was waiting for a response.

“Right. And if I’m not mistaken, that mind of yours is still turning, isn’t it?” He pats Jon’s calf imperiously and nudges his legs a little further apart. “Now then.” And he’s back at it before Jon has any chance to process his indignation. This time his beard against Jon’s skin is cold and sticky, making him squirm until Peter lays one large, solid arm across his hips, pinning them still.

“I don’t think-” Jon starts, and then bites his lip when Peter sucks at his clit. “It’s not quite-”

Peter raises an eyebrow at him. “Ah. More?”

“Er.” Jon tries to swallow, his sore throat protesting.

“Easy,” says Peter, and then two of his fingers are suddenly pushing at Jon’s entrance, breaching him far too easily for the miniscule amount of pride he’s been able to retain. The worst part is that it _is_ better this way, with something to clench around, filling him. Peter’s fingers are so thick that two of them almost feels like four of Jon’s own, and when he finally starts moving them it makes Jon abruptly lightheaded, collapsing back on the cot. Peter returns to sucking him, working up a steady rhythm that has Jon panting before long. Just when a second climax is starting to threaten Jon again, Peter pulls back, presses a few wet, thorough kisses to his clit and says, “Goodness, Archivist, you take that well.”

“What is _that_ supposed to mean-?” Jon demands testily, but instead of answering him Peter adds a third finger. This time Jon can’t help a rough, bitten-off groan, and he can feel Peter’s grin against his vulva before he flicks his tongue somewhere electric. It doesn’t take long to get back to that shaky precipice, and this time Peter twists his wrist, curls his fingers and strokes somewhere mysterious inside Jon that unravels him like a spool of thread. He makes a sound that might have suggested he’d been suckerpunched, if it hadn’t been accompanied by far more wet and obscene noises. Peter fucks him through it, tight and needy little spasms that last for several minutes at least. When he finally sits back, he looks like the cat that got the cream.

But it appears not even that is enough. “I think I could coax one more out of you,” Peter muses. “Maybe with something a little extra.”

“Wha-?” Jon mumbles, but then he feels Peter’s ring finger, slick with his own fluids, pressing insistently against the pucker of his arsehole. “Jesus _Christ,_ ” he exclaims, scrambling to push himself up, but all it takes is one filthy thrust and Peter is inside both holes, making his cunt throb with shocking desire. Peter’s tongue is unforgiving on his clit, and it barely takes a swipe or two before he’s coming again, harder than ever, his whole body jerking with the force of it. This release comes hot and rushing, and he writhes on Peter’s hand.

He must have screamed, because his throat is raw and he’s coughing as he comes down. The convulsions are an odd juxtaposition to the tremors running through him while Peter keeps moving his hand. He’s almost dispassionate in the way he rubs Jon’s clit with his thumb, like he’s bored of this but determined to wring every last second of pleasure from Jon nevertheless.

At some point Jon registers the fingers inside him are cold, which is what prompts him to finally heave himself upright and paw Lukas away. There’s a wetness on the camp bed sheets underneath him that feels too strangely _liquid_ for comfort, and Peter’s beard is dripping. He doesn’t look particularly bothered. It catches up slowly that Peter must have made him squirt- Which has only ever happened twice before, although Jon isn’t about to _tell_ him that when he already looks so haughtily pleased.

Jon opens his mouth to say something, but then all at once his arm gives out and he flops pathetically onto the pillow. Peter pats his stomach obnoxiously with his clean hand, which doesn’t stop Jon from whimpering when he finally withdraws his fingers.

“What…” He starts, and then doesn’t know how to proceed. Eventually he settles on, “What in god’s name was _that?_ ”

Lukas scoffs. “Don’t tell me you’ve never heard of-”

“Yes, yes, all right, don’t _say_ it,” Jon grumbles, trying to arrange himself back on the cot away from the damp spot and feeling far too stiff and sluggish for the endeavor. “I meant… I meant… The whole… Ugh.”

“Well, you’re exhausted now, aren’t you?” Lukas points out, ducking out from under Jon’s leg and standing. He’s got more grey hair than Jon, but he doesn’t seem stiff in the slightest, the bastard. “I’ll just bet you sleep like a rock.”

The front of his slacks is tented out impressively, and Jon is almost startled to see it; otherwise he might have guessed Peter unaffected. Peter catches his dull stare and waves a hand. “Don’t worry. I prefer to take care of this sort of thing by myself.”

“Of course you do,” Jon mutters, still splayed listlessly out on the cot with his pants around one leg. Peter is busy cleaning his face and fingers with a red bandanna handkerchief, soundly ignoring Jon. From his earlier demeanour Jon might have expected him to try and practice a little aftercare, but it’s not a surprise in the slightest when he adjusts his clothes and turns toward the door with nothing more beyond, “Well, Archivist, it has certainly been a pleasure.”

Jon sighs. Some residual disgust and self-loathing is starting to creep up on him, but at the very least the pressure in his head has lessened and he can allow sleep to overtake it for now, dragging a blanket to haphazardly cover the worst of his embarrassment. “But- What was the _point,_ then?” he demands as Lukas is turning the doorknob.

“Whatever do you mean?”

“W- That can’t _possibly_ have been for my benefit,” Jon says, fighting to keep his voice even. “You- Isolation is the whole _idea_ of you, I don’t- I don’t understand.”

Peter chuckles blandly. “Oh, you will when you wake up.” The door clicks shut behind him.

Hours later, when Jon wakes to a pounding headache, an aching itch between his legs and a cold mug of tea at the bedside, he thinks he might have the idea.

**Author's Note:**

> Catch me over at my [nsfw twitter](https://twitter.com/naughtical_nbd) if you enjoyed this one! Feedback always appreciated, and I'm now open for these requests. Let me know if there's a tag or warning I missed.


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